


All that was there (Will be there still)

by targaryen_melodrama



Series: Abandoned works [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Getting Back Together, M/M, POV Alternating, This fic is incomplete and I have no intentions of finishing it FYI
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryen_melodrama/pseuds/targaryen_melodrama
Summary: Thank you to my dear friend for beta'ing this all these months ago!





	All that was there (Will be there still)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my dear friend for beta'ing this all these months ago!

The third time he hears pounding on his door, Sam resigns himself to his fate and leaves his bed to go answer. Last thing he needs is a complaint from his neighbors.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger too much on the empty takeout boxes on his coffee table or on the ungodly amount of beer bottles that are sitting on the floor next to his couch. He hops over the laundry basket overflowing with dirty clothes that blocks his front door and takes a deep, steadying breath because this can be one of three people.

Well, Sam thinks as he sees blond hair and a purple t-shirt through the peephole, maybe one of four?

_ Here we go_.

“Finally, Jesus. Thought I would have to force myself into your apartment.”

“And you’d pay for the damages.”

“Nah,” Clint says, with a smirk. “Wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

Clint pushes past Sam and goes straight to his living room, presumably to throw himself on the couch, before he stops in his tracks.

“Aww Sam, no. This is bad. This is real bad. You can’t do this to us.”

Sam takes in his living room and kitchen and feels slightly ashamed despite the fact that he’s seen Clint’s apartment look much worse. That _ is _ a lot of takeout andー_wait a fucking minute_.

“I can’t do this to _ you _?”

“You’re the one who’s got his shit together the most, second only to Rhodey. Oh, and maybe Nat. Shit, definitely Nat. Don’t tell her I forgot her.”

_ Yeah, well being the one having his shit together isn’t all it’s cracked out to be_.

“I won’t if you tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m kidnapping you!” Clint explains cheerfully. “It was gonna be Rhodey, but he said if he came over himself, you probably wouldn’t like it.”

Sam closes his eyes and sighs. He’s pretty much rested all day, but he’s not ready to deal with Rhodey or Clint or anyone else’s...helpfulness.

“I’m not...I’m not going anywhere. Tell Rhodey he can come down himself if he wants to.”

“Yeah?” Clint’s voice sounds far away, and Sam realizes he’s already made it to the kitchen and started poking at the coffee machine to reheat what’s left over from this morning. “Well I was told not to take no for an answer. So,” he says, hopping up to sit on the counter. “What do you wanna do while I wait for you to cooperate?”

“Clint.”

“Nope!”

“I’mー”

“No excuses!”

“What if I come out next week, for karaokeー”

“It’s been a month, Sam,” Clint says, and his voice is serious. Sam turns to look at him, not expecting the change of tone. “Listen, I know as well as the next person how tempting it can be to just...stay away in your corner and let the worst of it pass. But we’re worried. This isn’t good. Not for anyone, especially not for you.”

Damn it. Empathy is Sam’s weak point, always had been.

That’s how he and Steve hadー

“Okay. Okay, just...okay.” Sam ignores Clint’s whoop, and definitely ignores the fact that he’s drinking coffee directly from the pot, _ Jesus Christ_, and works on slowly but surely quieting down every part of him that is screaming in outrage at the idea of leaving his apartment. “What are we doing?”

Clint wipes his mouth with his wrist. “We’re getting you drunk, obviously.”

*

When Steve left, Sam had sent out a mass text to all their friends, telling them that he was fine, but that he’d be absolutely and completely out of reach for a week and to _ please_, try not to initiate conversation. He’d muted notifications from group chats and blocked all calls and texts to his phone except for his mom, his sister and work.

That week, he’d signed up for a shift at a VA communal activity every single evening it was possible to, despite his coworkers’ knowing glances, pitying looks and outright side-eyes.

He left work at 10 PM every night, hopped on the A train, got some takeout at the Thai place two blocks from his house (he went to the Indian place three blocks away when he wanted variety), got home, ate, showered and went to bed. He never felt rested when his alarm clock blared at 5, but it was the only way he could function without letting any inch of him really acknowledge what had happened.

He went in to work the next Monday with every intention of signing up for more activities when his colleague Alejandra grabbed his wrist before he could even start putting his name down.

“No.”

“What do you mean _ no_?”

“I mean no. I don’t know what the hell is going on, Sam, but whatever it is, you’re not using this to deal with it.”

“Ale, come on.”

“I said no. And go before anyone else sees what you’re doing.”

That’s when the bullshit had properly started, Sam thinks bitterly. When the people in his life started interfering with his (_perfectly valid_) coping mechanisms.

_ Now you know that’s not true, Wilson. You know they do this out of kindness. And duty. _

While that might not be true, it still meant that Sam’s _ somewhat _ unhealthy way of coping was gone. He’d slept through the night that Monday, and even the following Tuesday night. But Wednesday, without that bone deep exhaustion…

He dreamt of Steve being with him, and woke up reaching for him in his sheets. He would startle awake, missing Steve’s arm around his waist, realize he was gone all over again and couldn’t go back to sleep.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

He barely made it through the door on Monday before his boss sent him home.

“Wilson. _ Wilson_. Sam, damn it. The whole point of you being here is to get you out of your head.” Bucky’s looking at him expectantly.

Had he been quiet this long? All eyes are on him, Bucky and Phil facing him, Rhodey on his left. He can see their concern, even in the bar’s low light.

“We can do something else if you want,” Phil offers kindly.

“I’m...no. It’s fine. Actually, you know what? It’s not. It’s not fine.” Sam has started thinking about things a little too much for his taste, and it’s starting to get to him. “I need way more alcohol than this.”

Sam’s barely finished speaking when Clint slams a tray of shots on the table.

“Vodka shots, anyone?”

Maybe going out wasn’t the _ worst _ idea in the world.

*

“Get the fuck out.”

“I'm not lying to you.”

“You, Philip Jamal Coulsonー”

“The J stands for James, actually.” Sam waves that away with the hand that’s holding his beer, which isn’t the brightest idea, Sam realizes, as he sees just how much beer goes flying out of his glass.

“ーyou’ve met Beyoncé? And never brought it up?”

Phil’s cheeks are red, but Sam can’t tell whether it’s embarrassment or alcohol related. In any case, Rhodey seems to like it, since he hasn’t stopped looking at Phil with this sappy smile once for the past 15 minutes.

_ Just like on that picture of me and_ーnope. Not now.

“It never really came up, but I did meet her. She was very sweet, very accommodating.”

Sam is two parts happy for his friend and one part jealous. “I still can’t believe you met her and never told me. I didn’t even know you were such a fan!”

At this, Phil frowns. “Of course. Since _ No, No, No _. She’s had a long, successful careerー”

“Uh oh, here he goes,” Rhodey says, turning away from Phil for the first time to roll his eyes at the group.

“She’s talented and competent, and clearly dedicated to her craft. And I don’t know what you’re _ uh oh_-ing me for, Rhodey, you’re right there with me.”

Rhodey tips his head in agreement and winces immediately. “Oh, wow. Okay. I haven’t drank that much in a while. How’re you feeling, Sammy?”

“I’m good. Really. Thanks, guys.”

Sam feels guilty as soon as he sees how relieved his friends seem at that.

It’s not their fault, it really isn’t. And Sam isn’t lying. He feels...well first of all, he feels drunk, and at first glance, it’s not too different from the nights he’s spent alone in his apartment last week, but this feels different. He’s here with friends, and both the conversation and the noise around them distract him from any unwanted thoughts. He can almost pretend this any other night out.

Almost.

If Sam manages to avert his eyes whenever Phil grabs Rhodey’s hand, or when Bucky rolls his eyes fondly at some terrible pun Clint’s made. If he can ignore the fact that five different people who hadn’t come in with anyone had left with someone else, or even with a group of people, he can keep up appearances.

If Sam can ignore how much his heart squeezes in his chest anytime he moves his hand slightly to the left on his booth, or on his table, only to realize that no one’s there to grab it and kiss his palm, he can almost pretend he’s fine.

Sam’s about to open his mouth to suggest another round of shots when Rhodey yawns and says, “Well, guys, I think that’s it for us. You younguns can keep going if you want to, but we’re gonna turn in.”

_ Jesus, Sam, get a grip_.

“Nah. I think that’s it for us too.” Clint stretches, then his eyes widen and he turns to Sam. “Unless you wanna stay, Sam, that’s totally fine too!”

“No, no, I’m good too. Gonna uh, Uber home.”

“You sure? Head home with us, the couch is yours,” Bucky says. The easy smile he’s been wearing all evening has turned into a frown. One of these days, Sam’s gonna call out Bucky on playing the dense card all the time when he’s clearly one of the most perceptive of them. “And Lucky hasn’t seen you in a while, too.”_ Low blow, Barnes_.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m tired too, haven’t gone out in a while.”

“If you’re sure.” The frown hasn’t left Bucky’s face.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” In fact, Sam can’t wait to get out of here and pass out on the first horizontal surface he finds in his apartment. He’s pretty sure that with the amount of alcohol he drank, he’s in for a dreamless night. 

“Okay. We’ll wait for your Uber with you, then.”

Hugs are given, promises to keep in touch are made, and soon enough Sam’s in his Uber, tired, drunk, and alone. He pulls out his earphones immediately, not in the mood to chat or to hear the driver complain about having to go up to Harlem, but mostly drying to delay the inevitable.

For the hundreds of times Sam has been stuck in traffic or caught in an accident or with a terrible driver, this ride goes way too smoothly. Sam’s stomach fills with dread, his brain already reminding him that he’d _ known _ going out was a bad idea, and that he’d done it anyway. That he should’ve stuck to his own methods: keep so busy he couldn’t think, whether that was at work or with Netflix documentaries.

Sam can see his building, and he has no clue how he’ll get out of this car.

It’s the little things he can’t do, the transitions. He can’t leave this car, not when he isn’t shaken or kissed awake first. Not when no one’s here to whisper that they’re home.

No one to help him with his jacket, with his keys, to chuckle at how tipsy or drunk he is.

He can’t do anything that reminds him simply but oh so clearly of just how different his life is from the way it was just a month ago. Four weeks. Thirty days.

“Sir. _ Sir_. Sir, you’re home.”

_ Out of the car, Sam. Just make it out of the car_.

“Thanks,” Sam forces himself to say. “Have a nice evening.”

Sam doesn’t really know how he makes it up the stairs considering how blurry his vision is and hard his heart is pounding. He almost misses the stack of envelopes left in front of his door. He struggles with his keys for an embarrassing amount of time, puts a foot in then goes right back out to pick up the letters, and walks right into his laundry basket.

Sam doesn’t really care. Right under a Post-It note that says _ Tenant 13f, your mailbox is full_, he recognizes the handwriting on the first envelope, and decides to open it, since he could really use a pick me up.

There are two sheets of paper inside, one with his Sarah’s pretty cursive and one with a mess of colors.

_ Hi baby, _

_ It’s been real busy here, but you’re on our minds. _

_ We miss you! _

_ Love,  
_

_ Sarah and AJ _

_ Ps: AJ took a few artistic liberties, but that’s you and her at the zoo a few weeks ago. _

Sam puts the letter down when the first tear hits the paper. So much for a pick me up.

Fuck. Fuck. This is really happening, huh? He can’t push back the tears. He just doesn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.

Sam’s knees give out on him as soon as the sobs start coming.

Goddamn it.

God_damn _ it.

Goddamn it, Steve.

Why?

***

“You’re miserable, aren’t you?”

Though it’s painful to admit, all the tension leaves Steve’s shoulders as soon as Peggy says the words.

“Peg…”

“You are. You’ve been miserable since you set foot in London, but it’s been weeks and you aren’t any better.”

God, had he been this transparent?

“Yes, Steve, I’ve noticed,” Peggy says, rolling her eyes. “Now, am I going to have to pester you for an hour before you start talking, or are you gonna give it up?”

“Tall Red Eye for Steve?”

Steve hears Peggy’s light huff as he scrambles out of his seat to get his drink from the barista. It’s not just that he doesn’t feel like talking about his feelings at the moment, it’s who he’d be discussing them with. Peggy, Steve thinks as he adds just the right amount of milk and sugar to his drink, is smart about so many things Steve is not. Smart in a similar Sam was, actually.

Steve hears someone clearing their throat behind him and realizes he’s been stirring for way too long and that a line is forming behind him.

“Oh. I’m really sorry. Here.” He hands the milk to the person behind him and heads back to their table.

“D’you wanna go outside?” he asks Peggy. “It’s not too bad for February, andー”

“Steve. Sit.”

Steve sits down, takes the lid off his cup to let the steam out and waits. After what seems like forever, but probably isn’t more than two minutes, he raises his head to see that Peggy is staring at him, patient, but unimpressed.

After a deep breath (and a _very _ brief thought about a potential escape route), Steve says, “I think I broke up with the love of my life.”

That is _not_ what he had planned to say, _Jesus_ _Christ_.

“IーI meanーI think I made a huge mistake. Coming here.”

Peggy frowns immediately. “They didn’t want you to come here?”

“No! I meanーhe doesn’t...okay.” Steve takes another deep breath. “His name is...his name is Sam.” Saying Sam’s name is like confessing a secret: painful and soothing all at once. Steve continues staring down at his cup.

“I met him...six, seven months after coming home? We hit it off immediately. He’s funny, and sweet, and caring, and _ God _ his smile is…” Steve can hear how cliché it sounds, but can’t bring himself to care. He hadn’t talked about Sam, or _ to _ Sam, in so long. “Former soldier, like me. I...I love him. I love him so much, and when I got the call...I didn’t know what to do. We’d been together a year, which is long, but not _ that _ long, and when I got the call...I couldn’t ask that of him, Peg. I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t ask what, Steve?” Peggy says softly.

“Couldn’t ask him to come, and...I couldn’t ask him to wait. So I...I left him.”

Peggy purses her lips slightly and has one of those internal sighs Steve knows so well.

“You left,” she says. Steve nods. “Without asking?” Steve nods again.

Peggy sighs, audibly this time. “Alright. Well, that explains...a lot. Did you...do you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“And you said you loved him.”

“Still do.”

Peggy opens her mouth, then shakes her head, seemingly deciding against whatever she was going for. “Why couldn't you ask?” she says instead.

“He…” Steve thinks about the best way to explain this without exposing some of Sam’s secrets. Some stories aren’t his to tell. “It felt like the thing to do. Because of the, uh, circumstances in which his previous relationship ended, we agreed to take it slow. And though we’d been together a year, we hadn’t really talked about our future, and it felt...God it _ still _ feels like a lot to ask for someone to put their relationship on hold for three months without some kind of solid commitment.”

“Wait. I’m confused.” Peggy tilts her head. “Without commitment? I mean, you weren’t _ engaged_, but dating someone for a year is a fairly good indicator of commitment, is it not?”

Steve feels his cheeks warm up. “I wasn’t sure, Peg. Couldn’t be. Things had been going well, and if we’d had a few more weeks, maybe...maybe we would’ve had that conversation.” Strong emphasis on maybe. Steve had never been the one to initiate these types of conversations. “But then and there, the way things were...it seemed easier this way. Better. Sam doesn’t deserveーhe doesn’t need anything complicated, or anyone that can’t be there 100% for him.”

Steve finally looks up to Peggy, his voice gaining confidence as he remembers why he’d left like this in the first place. It had been the right thing to do, no matter how much it hurt. “I couldn’t do that, couldn’t...be there for him like that. Not while being here.”

“And you didn’t _ ask _ him, Steve? Didn’t give him the option to choose what he wanted to do with that information?”

“And make him think that he was less important than this internship? Absolutely not.”

“And you don’t think that this is exactly what he thinks right now, considering the fact that _ you left _? Steve, youー” Peggy stops abruptly and sighs. She picks up her cup of tea, lightly blows over it, and stares down into it, a frown forming on her face. “Steve, I know you and I love you, but I can’t make this make any sense. It’s no wonder you’re so unhappy, you made yourselfーand the person you call the love of your lifeーmiserable for no reason!”

“There was a reasonー”

“It was a bad one,” she says, not unkindly. “It was a bad reason, and it was wrong of you to assume his feelings like you did.”

“IーI…”

Steve doesn’t have anything to say to that. The thing is, _ God _ , the thing is Steve knows it wasn’t necessarily the best decision, but it felt like the right one at the time. Why drag Sam through a long-distance relationship, one an _ ocean away _? Why wouldーwhy would Samー

“Why would Sam even want something like that with me? How would I knowー”

“By _ asking_, Steve.” Her eyes go soft again. “By asking. And maybe you wouldn’t have liked the answer, but ifーif Sam is the love of your life, then maybe you’d have been surprised by his answer. You might’ve even liked it.”

Steve’s fists are tightening at his side, so he grabs his cup and takes a sip of his drink, but his hands are shaking, and he can’t hold his cup up more than a few seconds. His head and his heart are going off in two completely different directions, leaving Steve feeling dizzy.

On the one hand, Peggy’s...not wrong. Not at all. She’s probably more right than Steve is willingーor ableーto admit at the moment.

On the other hand, there has to be a reason why the idea of asking all these questions had filled him with dread, right? Why no matter what, this had seemed like the decision to make?

God, there _ had _ to be a reason. Steve’s not ready to face the alternative.

_ Got a lot of thinking to do, don't you, Rogers? _

Steve realizes he's been quiet for a while and looks up at Peggy, a rueful smile slowly stretching his lips. What would he do without her?

“Thank you, Peggy. You’re so much better at this than I am.”

To his surprise, she doesn't smile back. Instead, she grabs his hand across the table, eyes soft but piercing, and says, “I am. But you could be better, Steve. Much better, if you wanted to.”

***

Sam wakes up registering two things at once: the horrible pounding in his head, and the incessant pounding at his door.

Fuck. Is this _ Groundhogs Day_? Is Sam doomed to wake up broken up with Steve with someone trying to tear his door down every single day?

It takes a minute for Sam to realize he’d cried himself to sleep last night, since he’s in the very same spot he was in when he...collapsed. God, this is pathetic, Sam’s real glad he didn’tー

The pounding is back, Sam’s pretty sure this person’s trying to tear his door down.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, _ Jesus _, give me a second.”

Sam yawns and stretches. He’s wiping drool from his cheek and chin when he hears a weird metallic noise from the door.

_ Lord, is this how I die? Getting robbed? _He doesn’t even have time to close his eyes to pray when the door opens.

“Sam Wilson, what am I gonna do with you?”

This...might be worse than death.

Sam knows how horrible he looks sitting on the floor like this in the middle of expired food and empty bottles, but having Natasha stare him down this way makes him feel a thousand times worse.

“I...you just broke into my apartment,” he says ridiculously.

“Well,” she says stepping over the laundry basket before kicking it into a corner, “I was told you got really drunk last night and didn’t answer anyone’s texts asking you if you’d made it home safely. I wasn’t given much of a choice, was I?”

“What texts? And am I not allowed to sleep in anymore?”

“Sam.” Nat slowly crouches in front of him, and she looks terrifyingly unimpressed. “It’s 4:30 in the afternoon. You left the bar at 2:00.”

Sam bites the inside of his cheek to avoid saying the first snappy response that comes to mind. He _ is _ annoyed that he’s being watched so carefully, but considering what Clint had seen last night in his apartment, Sam understands the worry, even though he hates it.

“I’m alive and well,” he says. “All clear?”

Nat stares at him some more, but it’s not the look she had earlier, it’s softer. Assessing.

“Not quite.” Her eyes leave Sam’s face and take in his entire apartment, but he can’t read what she thinks of the situation. After a beat or two, she looks back down at him. “Here’s what I’m thinking.”

_ Uh oh_. When does Nat ever offer what she’s thinking as opposed to simply announcing what she’s about to do? The situation has to be worse than what Sam thought.

“Yeah?”

“Option 1: you have two minutes to yourself, then we talk, really talk, you go shower, shave, and we do something about this mess.” Somehow Sam knows she wasn’t just referring to his apartment. “Option 2: you take two minutes to yourself, we talk, then we start working on this mess, and finally you go shower.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Not really.” Nat smiles. “Thought I’d offer you the illusion of choice. Or the comfort of choice, if you’d prefer.”

“Generous.”

“I know I am. So. Which will it be?”

Sam sighs. He's been in this situation before, it's not worth fighting. “Option 1, I guess.”

“Great. I'll be in the bathroom.” They’re doing a great job at pretending Nat won't also be taking a look at the rest of his apartment. “Use your two minutes wisely.”

As soon as Nat’s out of sight, Sam lies back down on the floor and dumps his arm over his face.

People meddling with his (_somewhat _ problematic) coping mechanisms are gonna be the death of him.

Natasha might mean well, but how is Sam supposed to do anything, let alone anything productive with his head and stomach in shambles, his body refusing to cooperate and not even coffee to make himself feel somewhat alive?

“Are you done?”

Sam refuses to remove his arm from his face. “It hasn’t been two minutes.”

“Right, I’m sure you’ve been keeping your eye on the time. You’re perfectly aware of your surroundings, Sam.”

“Natー”

“Sam.”

“Natasha.”

“Samuel. Huh,” Nat says in an incredulous tone Sam knows she doesn’t mean. “This is fun. We could go on, if you’d like.”

Sam _ knows _ he’s acting like his niece. He knows, he just doesn’t care. He can do this all day and is about to tell Natasha so when he feels something warm and cold touch his arm.

“Fuck is this?”

“Why don’t you open your eyes and find out?”

As slowly as he can because petty is a Wilson family trait he inherited against his will, Sam takes his arm off his face. He opens the right eye, then the left.

_ Sweet baby Jesus_. He must’ve really been out of it because he only registers the smell of coffee when he sees the large cup.

“I love you, Nat,” he sighs. “I really do.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Double shot vanilla latte, 1 litre of water fresh out of the freezer and extra-strength Tylenol. All yours if you make it off the floor.”

Making it off the floor seems impossible. Not as bad as trying to survive a war zone, but it’s pretty close. He can do this. Natasha must see the determination on his face, because she sets down the water and coffee and grabs his hand to help him up.

“There. Not too hard, was it?”

Sam doesn’t dignify that with an answer and reaches for the coffee. He doesn’t have the time to be embarrassed by the loud moan that slips from his lips as he drinks when Nat pushes him towards his (surprisingly clean) couch.

“Tylenol,” she orders as he sits down. “Two. Then we talk.”

While Sam’s taking the pills, Nat goes around the room to open up the blinds, allowing just a little bit of grey light filter through the room.

Once she’s satisfied with her work, she sits down across from him, legs crossed on the couch. “What’s going on, Sam?”

There are probably a hundred different ways Sam can answer that question, but in this moment, feeling the way he does, Sam chooses the simple truth.

“It’s hell, Nat. This is hell. Four weeks ago I was in a relationship with the person I loved the most in the world. Nowーnow I’m alone and...I don’t know. I don’t know why it happened. He just...left. For some internship we’d neverーnever talked about. Like I wouldn’t have waited. Like I wouldn’t haveーshit. _ Shit_.”

It could be the coffee and the fresh water, or it could be the understanding Sam can see in Natasha’s attentive eyes, but now that he’s started talking, he doesn’t wanna stop. “I just...I don’t know, Nat. I don’t know whatーwhat I did wrong. I would pay good money to figure it out.” Sam’s voice breaks on that last word. “I loveーI loved Steve. I loved him so much. With every part of me. What little I could spare after Riley, it was allーit was all for him. How does itーit doesn’t make any sense! It doesn’t make any goddamn sense. We were happy, and I tried, I fucking _ tried _ despite all the warning signs.” Sam doesn’t know when he started raising his voice, but he can’t keep it up for long. He doesn’t have the energy to. “I tried,” he finishes quietly. “I tried and he still left.”

Even with the city’s noise outside, Sam’s living room feels eerily quiet after his little rant. It’s making Sam quite uncomfortable. He reaches out to his coffee table and chugs down the entirety of his latte despite the burn, and then drains half the bottle of water.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “That’s, uh, that’s what’s going on with me, thanks for asking. How are you?”

“You don’t have to deflect or joke, Sam. You’re not okay,” Nat says, not unkindly. Sam flushes, stares down at his hands. “Sam?”

Sam forces himself to look back up. “Yeah?”

“Are you still in love with Steve?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

It’d be silly to lie at this point, right?

“No.”

“Okay.” Nat nods, and if this was some kind of test, Sam feels like maybe he passed it. “Do you wanna do something about it?”

Surprisingly, this is the hardest question.

Or maybe not so surprisingly.

The thing about denial is that it has a purpose. At least in Sam’s life it does. Denial doesn’t let you move, doesn’t let you think, and rewards you for not moving.

Denial lets you think you’re doing a good job keeping your head above water when in reality, it’s clearly time to do something, whether it’s sink or swim.

If Sam does something about it, he starts swimming. And if he starts swimming…he’s leaving Steve behind_ . _

Sam could do with a few more daysーa few more weeks, honestlyーof denial. Would’ve let himself sink a little, even, if it meant he didn’t have to acknowledge how much the breakup had fucked him up. Because if he acknowledges it, he’ll wantーhe’ll _ need _ to move forward. And if he moves forward…

_ I’m leaving Steve behind_.

But that’s never been who he is, has it?

The day after his dad’s funeral, he was back in school, studying his ass off to make it into the Air Force.

The day after Riley’s death, he was back in the air, doing his job like he was supposed to, because people needed him to.

A week after he’d been discharged, Sam was lining up interviews at various VA departments, hospitals and care centers around DC, because there was so much work to do here, back home.

Sam was always moving, always swimming. It’s the only thing he knew how to do.

Nat’s face is still gentle, relaxed, but her eyes are sharp and observant. Before Sam even says a word, she offers him a little smile, like she already knows.

Sam feels a bit of tension leave his shoulders, and he takes a deep breath.

“I think...I want to do something about it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Almost a year ago (!!!!!), I was listening to White Flag by Dido (where the fic and chapter titles are from) and was like this is 10000000000% Steve singing that song to someone he wants back (that someone is Sam because that's how we do).
> 
> I have another chapter that's maybe 90% done that I'll post soon probably, another half-baked one and the end written though there's at least two other chapters I'd have to write to make this complete. Unfortunately, the inspiration/motivation for this left me quite a bit ago, so don't expect anything (but that other chapter, probably). 
> 
> Hope you still enjoyed!


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